Saturday, October 16, 2004

Revolution

I started a riot today.

After a morning of solo fatherhood while Hot Wife was away at Aerobics Instructor Training Camp (I asked if I could tag along and ogle all of the other hot wives and girlfriends, but my request was met with a roundhouse to the jaw and a kick in the nards), I crept away to see a movie. Some people think going to the movies by oneself is weird, but those folks clearly haven’t had the pleasure of a night at the megaplex with Hot Wife, who finds demented satisfaction in sneaking a bag of burned microwave popcorn into the theatre in her purse.

After a brief wait in line, I reach the box office window, lean into the little speaker and ask the woman in the blue blazer for a ticket to Friday Night Lights.

I pause, much the way I did after the aforementioned kick in the nards. Nine twenty-five? For a matinee?

“Are you sure that’s right?” I ask her.

“Yes, sir,” she says. “Nine twenty-five. Uh-huh.”

Fucking bitch.

I very reluctantly slide a $20 bill through the window. As she reaches for it, I’m tempted to grab her wrist and yank on it hard so she hits her head on the plexiglass. But that would be bad, so I don’t.

In stunned silence, I grab my ticket and march into the theatre lobby toward the snack bar. As I walk, I hear a couple behind me commiserating about the fact that they have just spent this month’s mortgage payment on two tickets to a Queen Latifah movie. I turn to face them.

“I’m sorry but I couldn’t help but overhear what you were just saying, and I totally agree,” I say. “Nine and a quarter for a movie ticket is criminal.”

“Seriously,” the guy says. The vein in the middle of his forehead is bulging out. “Someone has to do something about that.” I like the sound of that. It reminds me of Norma Rae standing up with the “Union” sign held high above her head.

We continue to talk as we shuffle through the snack line and others who have heard our indignance and bitterness join in the conversation. Soon there are raised voices. Picket signs pop up, one reading, “Century Theatres, get your hand out of my pocket!”

I arrive at the snack bar cash register with my medium popcorn and medium Diet Coke in hand. The cashier, a gothed-out hag with chipped black polish on her finger nails, rings up my snacks and asks me for $9.

“Fuck you, Elvira,” I bark. “Haven’t you taken enough from me?” With that, I dump my popcorn over her head, pull her collar just slightly away from her neck and pour my beverage down the front of her shirt. Her reaction seems to indicate that an ice cube has become lodged in her bra.

My act of revolution sparks pandemonium in the theatre. Popocorn and gummy worms fly through the air. An assistant manager is tossed through the Spongebob Squarepants Movie display. Little kids emerge from the theatre where Shark Tale is being screened and begin drinking Hawaiian Punch directly from the fountain.

I have Elvira in a wicked headlock when the guy with the bulging vein in his forehead taps me on the shoulder. He has a lighter in his hand.

“Come on, man!” he yells, trying to be heard above the riotous noise all around us. “Let’s torch this place before the cops get here!”

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Other Humans Write

Here are actual questions you asked the presidential candidates when they appeared on your show. To Bush: 'Were y'all spankers?" To Kerry: "Did you ever spank the girls?" To Bush: "Did you spank them?" To Kerry: "What did she do to get spanked?" Hey, Dr. Phil, keep it in your pleated pants. [GQ Magazine, Dec. 2004, pg. 372]